


thread by thread

by absurdxrecreation



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hannibal Lecter - Freeform, M/M, Paranormal, Post TWOTL, Ravage Anthology, Southern Gothic, Will Graham - Freeform, biblical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 22:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21327877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absurdxrecreation/pseuds/absurdxrecreation
Summary: Hannibal Lecter kills Will Graham: a bullet to the head in their crooked house in the Deep South; but why?[ Ravage Anthology Submission ]
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25
Collections: RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology





	thread by thread

**Author's Note:**

> This fic switches from present tense and past tense to differentiate past events (in the house) and when Hannibal is incarcerated.

Will had felt the sharp splash of a green sea all around him and then he was sinking. A heavy weight that was there before was absent and Will continued to sink, his nostrils burning as his shallows breaths took in the water. He never opened his eyes as his lungs filled with salty water, inked red with blood that was and wasn’t his own. Will’s lips parted and he choked, his limbs numb as they weakly thrash under the rippling of the deadly tide. Before he could attempt to fight, he let go onto what he never held in the first place. Should he have to fight against what was destined since the moment he truly became free? The moment he died to stay alive. Perhaps Death themselves had been keeping their eyes on Will: this shattered mirror that reflected their most beautiful aspects, gifted to him and to those that refracted him. What would he see now? In the blood water he consumed and that was consuming him with every dying breath. Would he see himself? Would he see Hannibal? Not his human suit, though, the one he wore so well, but the hems became frayed; the real Hannibal Lecter; naked and cold, tough hide and the touch of the fallen angel. In the back of his fading mind, Will had this belief he would have seen Hannibal no matter which side of himself he wished to see. What he did know, something that stood out from the maw, was far from the life he had left behind in the small cabin where a single mother, a child, and several dogs lived; Will wasn’t apart of that, and never truly was: that was his only definite thought that lingered. So as he drowned, his old life dying behind his eyes, he waited for his new life to save him.

Will rose up from the water, his hands pulling out, the suds racing down his arms as he firmly grasped the edges of the tub. He sat up and shivered as the cool air hit his wet body. And then, as he began to climb out of the tub, and as he wrapped his body in an all too soft towel, he felt the unwelcoming presence of something. Will looked over his shoulder and his eyes caught the door, not being closed all the way; so he walked over to close it, a soft click could be heard. Even if Will had lived with Hannibal for a couple of months now, in a large house in the middle of nowhere, he still hadn’t gotten used to living in the palace of Hannibal’s mind: the halls were all so long, and as soon as Will thought he had made distance, he was back at the start, and there Hannibal stood at the end; no light was casted upon him, but his shadow had become an all too familiar image; and he would disappear, only for Will to chase after him. But Will was tired of running after him, and yet, it sometimes seemed that something was chasing after Will as well. It clawed at the back of his throat and wrapped their cold, slender fingers around his neck. 

With that in mind, Will swallowed thickly and exited the bathroom into his bedroom, the pale floor creaking under his steps as he approached his bedroom door, which, fortunately, was closed, and locked. Will’s gaze had lingered on the memory of his hands hesitantly grasping the rusted-copper knob and slipping his key into the keyhole; that he had sighed as he heard the turning of gears, and the door was locked. From there, Will was digging through his drawers, having to adjust the towel around his hips a few times, and then he heard the click of the door. He paused his search for a shirt and held his breath as he looked up into the mirror in front of him, having a full view of everything behind him. The door knob rattled and was pushed open. Hannibal stepped through, quietly, and when he looked up, he paused.

“My apologies, Will,” he says as he opens the door wider allow himself to exit with ease, but, in this case, Hannibal hadn’t made any gesture to leave. “I thought you were still in the bathroom.”

“I’m just getting dressed,” Will says gazing back down back to his drawers, pulling out the shirt he couldn’t find earlier. “Did you need something?” He asks flatly, not wanting to display any kind of signs of discomfort, even though not completely meaning to be; his chest would still flutter at Hannibal’s presence. When there was no answer, Will turned on his heel and furrowed his brows. Hannibal was gone, and the door was closed. He took a breath before walking over and reaching over to grasp the door knob, aiming to pull it open so he’d see that Hannibal had just left silently, ending up noticing Will’s accidental discomfort. But as he turned the knob, there was no click. It was still locked. 

Will stumbled away from the door and looked to the desk just to the right of the door, attempting to reach for the key he always left in the back of the mirror. But as his fingers grazed the dusty surface, he immediately pulled away. The key wasn’t there. And the bathroom door creaked open.

~~~

It had started out as little things for Hannibal: Will consistently asking how his day went, what he had been doing, what he would be doing soon; but it never truly bothered the older man, he was never threatened or felt as if Will had become a nuisance. Whatever Will wanted to know, Hannibal was more than glad to tell him. Then it did because rather tedious; especially when he would ever so casually glance over his shoulder and — either when he was cooking or cleaning, sometimes even when Hannibal was just sitting and reading — spot Will in the corner of the room, or at the door way, or just beside him, watching.

Hannibal had confronted him once, asked him if there was any particular reason why he insisted to gawk at him so often; though, the only thing he gained was a different look on Will’s handsome face: he seemed disgusted, offended even, and when Hannibal attempt to pacify what he had originally asked Will stood abruptly from his arm chair, seated comfortably next to Hannibal’s, and stormed out of the room. It wasn’t often that he was able to irritate the man so easily; there had been times where Will would ignore a particularly snarky comment, but he would always laugh about it after a few moments, or reply with something equally snarky just to let Hannibal know he was ready to challenge him at anytime. Even Steven. They would smile: Will with his lopsided grin, where his lip would be pulled a little lower on one side than the other; Hannibal with his own fond smile, the one where his sculpturesque face would crinkle at his eyes and his velvet eyes shimmering.

But this time, Will had made no such effort; and in his wake, Hannibal eyes burned. The smell hit him like a bullet: rotten eggs. He stood, but just as quick as it came, it was gone.

It was that same night that the smell returned. 

Putrid and everlasting this time, lingering around the kitchen Hannibal resided in; his record played gently in the living area at the entrance of the main hall, and all the lights had been off, with the exception of the small bulb above Hannibal’s head as he busied himself with the dishes: dirtied from a meal accompanied by silence. No compliments, no adoration, no eye contact.

“Do you feel ill?” Hannibal had the courage to ask.

Will replied, “No, love, just tired.” After that, no other words were exchanged.

With pruned fingers, Hannibal reached to shut off the sink and moved to the other side of the kitchen, his eyes darting in the dark as he dried his hands off on the towel draped across the handle of the archaic oven. His hands grew icy and his hair on his arms stood erect at the sudden frigidity of the air; what caught his attention, however, was the familiar footsteps heading up the stairs just out in the hall. Hannibal hadn’t been aware of his advancement until a certain floorboard creaked under his foot. He quickly glanced down, as if his gaze was enough to arrest the subconscious motion, banning himself from going any farther; but on the ceiling above the man’s head there was a thud, and his eyes reverted up. How did he get there so fast—

“Hannibal?” He glanced down at the call of his name. Will stood just at the entrance of the kitchen, elastic curls untamed, and skin gleaming with sweat. “I... I think I’ve been sleep walking.”

The smell was stronger now, and burned his nostrils. “Sleepwalking?” Will nodded, and Hannibal approached the man and reached up to place his cold hand upon the other’s much too warm forehead; he could feel Will’s blood pulsating under his own thrumming veins. “I asked you if you felt ill, why did you insist you were fine — you’re burning up?”

Will’s brows furrowed under the older man’s hand as he questioned, “Asked me — when did you ask me anything?”

“This evening, at dinner,” Hannibal ducked his head as Will gazed down at the ground, recalling. “I had asked you if you were feeling well, I noticed you seemed well below par all day—“

“All day?”

“Indeed, so.”

“Hannibal, I haven’t seen you at all today, I was sleeping.”

“Dr. Lecter. — Dr. Lecter?”

He looks up and Jack is standing on the other side of the glass, already irritated by Hannibal’s passive manner.

“You’ve been in this cell for the past forty eight hours and you haven’t said a word to anyone, or even bothered to acknowledge any of their interrogations,” says Jack, his voice stern.

Hannibal only looks over the man’s broad shoulder, eyeing the shadow just at the corner of the room, as if he expects to see something emerge. Jack speaks again, but the man didn’t listen, he only continues to stare.

“You killed your husband, Dr. Lecter — why!”

At this, Hannibal’s gaze moves to hold Jack’s, and a shiver is sent down his spine, causing his fingers to twitch ever so slightly in the sleeves of his straight jacket. Earlier he had been in the corner of his cell, sitting contemplatively, with his hands tapping rhythmically as he listened to an old opera and watched the parade of memories flash across his eyes — memories thought of so often; so often that they had replaced every other: Hannibal’s mind was on repeat, and he liked it that way, even if he didn’t realise he had any other thoughts he was blocking. Guards had entered the room, for Hannibal had refused to respond when told to approach his food slot to retrieve his meal; but the man hadn’t spoken a single word, or moved one muscle as they grabbed and pulled Hannibal from his secluded area — it was more accurately like they had dragged a corpse: his body had been cold and his nails of the hand that wasn’t tapping at the ground dug deep into his palm, drawing blood — it took three of the guards to actually pry Hannibal’s hand open so they could stitch the wounds; after, they put the man in the straight jacket he currently wore, and onto his dolly.

“Killed him...” Hannibal speaks, absent as his mind wanders through a palace of ruins; where the trees grew inside the rooms, wildflowers in the halls, and vines on the ceilings. “What happened?” These words echo in the cell, but Hannibal didn’t know he says this aloud.

Jack frowns. “Don’t give me that amnesiac bull’, Dr. Lecter; even for you that is shabby place to saddle your horse.”

Hannibal looks around and his eyes finally take in his surroundings: he was in his cell they had crafted especially for him the first time they caught him — or rather, when he had surrendered: the walls and floors weren’t as glossed as they used to be; there was no desk or soft, bland blankets on the bed, or any toilet, books, and other previous necessities Hannibal had grown fond of when he spent time in here previously: it was lavish, but it was empty, and glum. “I can assure you, Will is not dead — if you could be so kind as to tell me where he is? Has he recovered well?”

The head officer seems to catch on. Perhaps this state was more severe than Jack likes to admit. “Dr. Lecter, what do you remember?”

“What do I remember?” Hannibal ponders, his eyes fluttering closed, “I remember... sparrows.”

He hadn’t known he had closed his eyes until they opened to the sound of tapping, subtle, but consistent; Hannibal’s gaze took a moment to adjust, and then he noticed a weight that was no longer at his side. He looked over his shoulder, the sheets rustling and shifted, and just as he suspected Will wasn’t there. The tapping continued, but Hannibal didn’t think anything of it as he reached for a candle on his bedside table. When he lit the wick, he could sense there was something in the darkness that his eyes couldn’t see; the more he stared, the more the man’s skin grew cold and his hairs stood erect — Hannibal knew: there was something staring back. He shifted the weight of his body on the bed, and just as the man was about to sit up, the bed groaned beneath him; Hannibal froze. Tears welled in his eyes as he refused to blink. A dark cloud seeped from around his body, grazing his ankles only to rise up his back, sizzling up his spine, and climb over shoulders. A hand had formed from the black mist looming all around him, and reached for the candle, a low, shushing followed. As quick as Hannibal gasped the candle blew out. And his eyes shot open to meet the water stained ceiling of his bedroom. He sat up immediately and was greeted by the sprinkles of daylight that scattered his sheets.

A snore caught Hannibal’s attention much too quickly for his mind of catch up and his head spun to his side where a figure laid. As his vision cleared, Hannibal took a deep breath. Will. Will was laying just beside him: ebony curls and all too pale complexion and almost blood red lips: the sickly beauty of Will. Hannibal, suffocating from exhaustion, made his way to lay down again, facing his partner, admiring how much more he was beginning to love Will when he was sleeping; sleep didn’t allow the man to hiss acrimonious words at all of Hannibal’s attempts to ease him out of his decathect attitudes, or guide his hands, palms or fists, to strike like a bullet. Hannibal felt safe when Will was asleep. He reached out, shaking in reluctance, and pushed a curl behind Will’s ear. “Where are you going?” He whispered. A few moments had passed, and a certain noise made itself known: a tapping. Hannibal looked over his shoulder to the window the sunlight filtered through, and there a sparrow stood just at the edge of the sill; it’s beak pecked at the glass, but stopped when Hannibal’s attention was gained. When it met the man’s eyes, the sparrow flew off.

Hannibal’s brow knitted together at the peculiar scene that had just played out. A sparrow pecking at a glass window? He trained his gaze there for a moment longer, analysing why a sparrow gave him such a feeling of haphazard exigency. A thick swallow and a breath followed Hannibal’s gaze back to his partner. He inhaled sharply when they met Will’s ocean eyes. Soon, sounded a loud thump that made Hannibal jump. Several more occurred, and with every one, he could hear the disturbances multiply, till they seemed to surround the whole room. A crunch made Hannibal look over his shoulder once more, at the window where the sparrow appeared and disappeared. The man stood and approached the spiderweb of cracks on the window. He peered over the ledge, avoiding at all times to get any closer to the glass, and Hannibal spotted the sparrow laying just on the downstairs roof; it twitched before it grew still: suffered from impact, death by a broken neck. Hannibal’s hands reached to the latch of the window, but as soon as his fingers gripped the rusted metal, another sparrow soared right through the centre of the breakage, and Hannibal fell back. Glass dug into his stomach and the bird laid dead on the floor beside him. He jumped as another window shattered downstairs. And then he could hear the sparrows hit all long the outside of the house.

The man climbed to his feet and turned to the bed to get Will. He was gone. The sounds stopped. The house became silent, along with the common sound of bird singing outside when it was a warm morning like that one.

“I’m scheduling a re-evaluation,” Jack says.

Hannibal looks away from where Jack stands and blinks once before speaking, “I wish to schedule an appointment with a priest.”

Jack pauses, and a look of worry grows on his stern features. “A priest?” Hannibal is silent. After a moment, Jack nods: “I’ll see what I can do.” He leaves. 

“Good morning, Doctor Lecter,” a man in a black suit and white collar greets, a smile on his face. It is the next day. Hannibal is on a dolly when he enters, the guards entering with him, Jack, as well.

“Please press the button under the desk in case of any emergencies,” Jack explains as he waves for the guards to release Hannibal from the dolly. When he is released, Jack goes over and hovers just in front of the doctor. “I’m going to remove your muzzle, Doctor Lecter,” the head officer speaks with a warning tone.

When Hannibal is free to speak, he doesn’t, instead he catches the gaze of the priest, and never blinks. The priest, Father... Hannibal doesn’t know his name. He looks to Jack and asks, “Am I allowed to know this gentleman’s name?”

“No,” Jack replies. “We don’t want to you getting too close.” Those words were meant to sting, and they do. Hannibal frowns, and looks back to the priest. “Again,” Jack starts as he turns his head, too, “If you need anything, Father—”

The priest nods. “Press the button, thank you, Mr. Crawford.” The head officer nods and he leaves, the guards lingering for only a moment before also leaving.

A silence hangs in the air: too thick to breathe, but thick enough to chew; and the only interactions between the men was their eye contact. The priest finally speaks, his hands come up to fold over table, “Please, take a seat, Doctor Lecter.” He does so, but his gaze never falters. The priest swallows and continues, “I’ve been told that this request isn’t something they would’ve ever expected from you — Mr. Crawford, I mean. He said asking for me is very... out of character.”

Hannibal’s eyes glisten like glass, but when he speaks, his tone is dull: “Do you believe in mercy to those who ask for forgiveness, Father?”

The priest blinks. “Of course, the Lord’s mercy is infinite; anyone, no matter what sin, may be a subject to his mercy,” he says, calm and gentle. “Have you asked for forgiveness, Doctor Lecter? Or is that the reason why we are here today?”

“I’ve asked for forgiveness — but not from God,” Hannibal states, “I don’t know if I’ve been forgiven.”

“What is it that you seek forgiveness for?” The priest asks hesitantly.

Hannibal looks up, his eyes warm, but gloomy. “For killing my husband.”

All around the house, as he stapled sheets to the broken windows, Hannibal would spot feathers on the ground, leading to another dead bird he didn’t notice. They had been everywhere: all outside, on the grass that grew green from the recent rain, dead birds scattered, all with their necks broken; and around the house from when they soared through the windows — all were dead, and all the windows were shattered. Hundreds of birds Hannibal had collected and burned, in which he cringed at that scent that would always appear when incidents like that had occurred. Several days passed, and nothing happened since; Hannibal saw less and less of Will, yet he always showed for dinner, and slipped his arms around his waist while they slept. They never spoke to one another. Silence became their company. Even once, and only that once, he felt his chapped lips press against the back of his neck.

Hannibal woke to his husband gone, and his mouth grew sour. He climbed out of the bed, took a long shower, and made his way outside to collect the rest of the birds. The smell of those corpses, in a large pile just behind the house as he set them aflame would forever haunt Hannibal’s senses, but it was better than rotten eggs. The birds burned, and Hannibal watched intently: it seemed the blaze was creating an image before him; bodily figures were being constructed with every lick of the flames; he could see movement, and an irregular face: a crooked nose, slanted eyes, uneven lips, elastic hair. Just as quick as the face formed, the flames roared and jumped forward, arms of incandescence reaching for Hannibal. He stumbled back, his eyes blown wide and a horrified expression on his normally stolid face. His back hit the ground before he could gain any composure, and Hannibal squeezed his eyes shut.

“Hannibal—!”

He looked up at the call of his name, and from beyond the flames he could see Will; Hannibal was quick to climb to his feet, and ran toward his love — though, the closer he got, the larger the flames would grow, leading him away from Will. A feeling of dread accumulated at the base of Hannibal’s stomach, and a lump formed in his throat — he needed to get to Will, because something was trying to force them apart. He couldn’t see anything but the flames and Will. It had to be Will, who else could it be? Hannibal blinked once. The heat and pressure of the air vanished. Not even smoke remained. A bead of sweat, however, continued it journey along Hannibal’s flushed cheeks. The fire was gone, from in front and all around him; even the fire that cooked the birds went out, leaving their corpses to bake now under the hot sun of the South.

“Hannibal…”

Will’s voice, now calmer, made the veins under Hannibal’s skin thrum, and sent his feet stammering towards him. “Will, where have you been?” He began as he took his cold face in his hot hands. “You’ve been away for so long, I knew not what else to do. I thought you had abandoned me.” No timber or tone could mask how relieved Hannibal felt to finally hold his lover again.

He shook as he spoke, “I don’t know what’s happening—” a sharp inhale followed after Will’s confession, and the he whimpered, “—Everything is… is wrong. I can’t breathe, my-my body is sore.” Hannibal took a deep breath as he pulled the other to his chest, hoping Will would find comfort in the notion. “I feel it all around me, like it’s in my skin.” Hannibal paused. “It’s not in my head, it’s real and… and feeding off me.”

Hannibal pulled back to meet the man’s eyes. “Are you seeing things?” Will nodded and then his gaze flickered to just over his shoulder, and his pupils grew wide. “The… the birds,” he whispered, drawing Hannibal’s attention in back to the pile of burnt corpses. “What is it—?” He began, and then, out of the mass of feathers and sharp talons, a wing twitched. Before Hannibal could process the movement as reality, all the birds exploded, mirroring that of the flame from moments ago. Will grabbed at Hannibal’s arms and pulled him to the house; throwing open the back door, he shoved Hannibal in first.

“Will!” He protested, but Will shook his head and slammed the door closed.

“What happened after that, Dr. Lecter?” The priest asks, disturbed.

Hannibal takes a breath before opening his eyes. “I heard him scream. I tried for the door, but it wouldn’t open. I slammed into it myself a few times, to no anvil. All I could hear was him screaming.”

The priest nods and sits up straighter. “And did you try the other door?”

Hannibal nods this time. “I ran, but the sheets on the window in the living room tore open. I had a better chance there than at the front door. I… I was pulling the sheets, all the staples were falling onto my skin, and I froze. There were so many. So much more than before.”

“More what? What did you see?”

“The sparrows. That’s where his screams were coming from,” Hannibal says, and his hands dwindled in his tightly wrapped sleeves. “They swarmed above the fire pit, and screeched. I could barely hear Will over them all. I didn’t want to believe it, but then I saw his face within the swarm.” The other man swallows down his fear and reached up to adjust his white collar. “I didn’t know how to save him…”

“You weren’t killing your husband that night, Dr. Lecter, were you,” He speculates after placing his sweaty palms flat against his slacks. 

Hannibal shakes his head. “I didn’t know… until after.”

“After what?”

He could feel the fear that had rattled his bones at the time course through his body. Hannibal squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head, “Something attacked me, and used Will to do it.”

“Hannibal?” Will’s voice echoed from just outside the door just before grasping the doorknob. “Please, let me in…” Hannibal couldn’t speak. It was like something had wrapped their cold hands around his throat, trying to suffocate him till he obeyed. He remained with his back to the door, and Will’s double-barrel Winchester pressed tightly against his chest.

“How did you know it wasn’t him?”

“It was the things he said: he told me that everything was my fault; that all the pain he was feeling because of me.”

“Did you believe him?”

“At first I didn’t, because… because we forgave each other.”

“Will forgave you for what you did to him?”

“Yes. He gave into me…”

The door tore itself apart from behind Hannibal, and he spun, the tip of the gun pressed right at Will’s forehead. His lips peeled over his teeth in a mocking grin, and, slowly, Will was sinking into his knees. “Go ahead, you’ve fucked him up enough already…” Hannibal cringed at the foul language that rolled off his lover’s tongue. “Do it.”

“What are you?” Hannibal whimpered. His finger was sweaty against the trigger.

Will’s smile grew larger, revealing more teeth than any human should have. “Today? I’m your beloved Will. But I’m sure you’ve already picked up who I really am, right?” A hot tear slid down Hannibal’s cheek as he nodded.

His lip quivered as he spoke, “Please… let him go.”

“Oh no, I’m taking you both—”

“No!” Hannibal interrupted, “Just me. It’s all my fault. After what I’ve done to him—” Will growled, pressing himself into the head of the gun, but the other continued, “I deserve this.”

“You lead him down this path of violence and self-destruction!” Will’s voice was no longer his own, and the shadows around him grew to touch the ceiling. “You think just because he was ignorant enough to accept it and forgive you that you should be spared!”

Hannibal shook his head. “I should not have been forgiven; Will had a life, and I… I broke him.” He bit his lip to conceal a sob, but nothing could stop him from muttering: “He’s gone.”

The shot rang out like thunder.

Jack Crawford makes his way into the room, the guards by his side. “Get up, Hannibal, you’re done here.”

The priest stands and goes to block Hannibal from the guards who were grabbing him. “Wait! I still need to speak with him!”

“Your time is up, Father.”

The priest quickly turns to Hannibal and whispers, before he turns away, and let’s the guards lead him away from Hannibal. Jack approaches Hannibal, staring directly into his cold, and empty gaze. “What did he tell you?” Jack asks.

Hannibal furrows his brows but soon answers, “Romans, chapter two: verse four.”

“‘Or do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, forbearance and patience, not realizing that God’s kindness is intended to lead you to repentance?’” One of the guards speaks up, almost immediately — instinctively — and with a tone of understanding.

Hannibal freezes, and the air around him seems to lift. He stays silent when climbs back onto the dolly. He never speaks after that, but, still, remains cooperative through the rest of his days. He dreams of that night he tossed the gun aside, and he fell to his knees beside Will; and let the blood spill from the back of the man’s head and stain his clothes.

The blood, as thick as syrup, flowed like a river across the floor of their crooked house in the Deep South.

**Author's Note:**

> I will also try to upload another version of this fic - it’s a little longer. It’s basically the stuff I had to edit out to fit the word limit


End file.
